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The Knight and the Moth

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Rachel Gillig

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“I love you!” he bellowed at me and his eyes turned black. “Happy now? I love you, okay? I love you so fucking much that it hurts! It’s driving me insane! I loved you from the moment I saw you doing your Miss Marple impression in those woods back at The Ragged Cove. But I could tell you were sweet on Luke and hey, why not? He’s the good-looking one, right? I mean, I’m just the hired muscle. I’m the one who gets everyone else out of the shit. But I couldn’t help my feelings, I’d never felt like that before. So yeah, okay I stole a kiss from you in the gatehouse – big fucking deal! But you know what? That was the biggest mistake of my life, because that one kiss from you drove me out of my tiny freaking mind! So, I’m sorry if I give the boy a hard time and ain’t too gentle with the girl, but I’m not going to sit back and watch you risk your life just so you can blow their noses and wipe their arses!” I looked at Potter and he seemed almost out of breath after his rant. Once he had finished, he put out his cigarette and lit another one. Standing, I looked at him and said, “Potter, I had no idea…” “Ah, forget it,” he said, waving me away with his hand. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Besides, I’ll be moving out at first light in search of Luke. Once I’ve rescued him, I’ll bring him to you in The Hollows and you won’t have to see me again.”

LoveVampireWow Moment
Book:Vampire Breed
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“The late afternoon sun illuminated the room with its brilliant light, but Tobias knew he would spend the rest of the day and night proving his love. But it would be the nights and days that followed this one that would continue to mend his soul. He’d won the biggest prize a man could ever win. The heart of a woman who possessed the strength to make him believe in himself and the ability to save him from his past. She was the mistress of his soul.”

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Book:His Mistress
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“Pale lights illuminate The Seven’s inner chamber. Once bright, the lamps are overgrown, dimmed by a sheet of stone. The room is octagonal, one side for the supplicant, unadorned. Six others each house a figure, statue-like, covered from head to toe in a thick layer of rock. All appear human shaped, with discernible wings, their postures neutral, dead. The seventh alcove lies empty. The Vagrant holds the sword up, letting it hum, calling, calling. As if returning from a dream, The Seven respond, slowly, sonorously. Splitting the shells that cover them, yawning into life. One by one, they catch the call and return it, till the harmony swells, reverberating from the walls and leaping up, vanishing into the fathomless, ceilingless dark above. Beautiful sounds mature, becoming words, musical, passed from one to the other, filling the chamber and the Vagrant’s ears. ‘Mourning has become morning, and we rejoice …’ ‘We rejoice in the proximity of your flame once more …’ ‘Once more we are Seven …’ ‘Are Seven together, come …’ ‘Come and join with us …’ ‘Join with us your light, diminished but still bright.’ Six arms drift out, gesturing to the last alcove, inviting. Neither Vagrant nor sword move. An eye studies the chamber, pausing at each alcove, noting the blades housed there, buried beneath layers of stone, useless. Rage simmers between sword and Vagrant. He takes a lock of hair from an inner pocket, throws it down on the floor between them. The sword lowers to point at it, then sweeps across the figures, then makes a hard stab towards the doors. Six faces freeze as the joyous echoes of song die out. The Vagrant swallows in a throat suddenly dry. Vesper dares a quick peek from behind the Vagrant’s coat. Alpha, of The Seven, sings out. The note begins wondrous but imperfect, the others soon match him. ‘We see now your pain, most furious …’ ‘Most furious you are and desperate to fight …’ ‘To fight once more, your desire …’ ‘Your desire we grant, go forth, take a second flame to our enemies …’ Voices come together, their force rocking the Vagrant backwards until he is pinned to the wall. Vesper holds his hand tightly, little feet rising from the floor. ‘Do not stop …’ ‘Stop when the cancer …’ ‘Cancer is cut …’ ‘Cut from the bones …’ ‘Bones and flesh …’ ‘Flesh of the land …’ ‘Land is clean!’ The Vagrant closes his eyes, squeezes them tight. He braces himself against the sound, pulling Vesper behind him raising the sword in front. Silvered wings unfurl protectively, shielding his face. An eye widens, blazing with indignation. ‘Then …’ ‘Then, then and only then …’ ‘Only then will you be free …’ ‘Be free to return to us …’ ‘Return to us and rejoice …’ ‘Rejoice for true, complete again. Immaculate.’ Six go quiet, demands echoing after. Vesper’s feet touch floor again and she wraps herself around a comforting leg. In the Vagrant’s hand, the sword trembles, humming dangerously. He takes a deep breath. From the depths of his stomach something is forged, travelling inevitably, gaining force as it goes, following tubes behind ribs, up through the chest, into the throat, teeth parting, allowing it outside. The Vagrant opens his eyes, they are full of weariness, disgust, conviction. ‘No.”

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Author:Peter Newman
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